INSIDE DEEP THROAT

Written and Directed by Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato

Matt Cale loves the law…

Watching the documentary Inside Deep Throat, while vastly
entertaining, is also an unnerving and depressing experience. Not
because stud-in-arms Harry Reems is now a born-again Christian living
in Utah, or that Linda Lovelace died on a lonely stretch of Colorado
highway after years of claiming she was raped and forced to endure
humiliation at the hands of Deep Throat’s director Jerry Damiano. No,Inside Deep Throat is bound to make all rational human beings sick to
their stomachs because in the 33 years that have passed since that
film’s release, American attitudes regarding sexuality and free speech
haven’t changed one iota. In fact, they’ve gotten worse. In ways that
future historians may never really sort out, the Bush era of
repression, denial, and un-Constitutional infringements on civil
liberties sinks even lower than the age of Nixon. Hell, John Mitchell
might have been a scumbag, but even he refrained from covering upmarble breasts at the Justice Department.

After all, the government report on the societal impact of pornography
was, in Nixon’s time, a statistical and scientific document, even if
it was ignored by officials who weren’t thrilled with its findings.
Today, as with the Meese Report of the Reagan era, “studies” focus
almost exclusively on anecdotal data and bullshit assumptions. In
other words, feelings trump hard fact. It’s enough that pornography be
deemed valueless and dangerous by a group of hypocritical white old
men, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Then, as now,
strong female sexuality (where women suck cock without apology and
actually insist on pleasure) is an assault on “traditional values,”
which, if defined with full honesty, are little more than ways to
ensure male supremacy in the workplace and the bedroom.

Deep Throat made a big splash in 1972 not because it was great cinema
(in fact, it’s an embarrassing piece of shit, defined by poor acting
and ridiculous dialogue), but rather due to its popularity among the
mainstream. Celebrities were seen at screenings from coast to coast,
and the lines around the block spoke to an acceptance that had been
waiting to spring forth. I have no doubt that most people went because
it was trendy and the thing to do, but the film became fodder for talk
show hosts, columnists, and even the usually humorless world of
politics. And this was far from a regional or “elite” pleasure. If you
were an American, you were expected to attend and discuss the
revolutionary impact of oral sex on screen. Finally, the overcoat
crowd could share a cup of coffee with the suits. The hipsters and the
squares could mingle together for one of the few times in our history.

Although a great deal of skepticism should be applied to the final box
office tally of $600 million, it is a fact that an initial $25,000
investment turned into a juggernaut of quick cash. Most of the profits
went to the mob of course, with the filmmakers and actors seeing
little for their hard work. And when we meet Lovelace as an older, bitter
woman, we come to understand (though she would deny it) that her rage
stems not from being exploited in a sexual manner, but rather a
financial one. In other words, she would have been the film’s grand
champion had she made money from the project. Instead, Lovelace lived
in poverty, faced constant scrutiny and termination, and eventually,
near the end of her days, cynically used her name to make a little
cash. She had a right to be pissed, of course, but her moral crusade
only made her look foolish. Somehow I think she would have chosen a
six-figure cashier’s check over Jesus.

The film gracefully takes us back to those days of yore, using
interviews to coax memories from an impressive list of pop culture
icons: Helen Gurley Brown, Carl Bernstein, Dick Cavett, Larry Flynt,
Al Goldstein, Hugh Hefner, Camille Paglia, Bill Maher, Erica Jong,
Norman Mailer, and Alan Dershowitz. Each adds to the overall context
and sense of joy they (and much of the country) felt during this time
of transition, although they also bring us back to reality, as it was
soon realized that getting rid of Tricky Dick had little to do with
remaining sexually liberated. Democrats, it was soon demonstrated,
could be just as hostile to the display of the sexual act. And when
Harry Reems was actually put on trial for his role in Deep Throat, a
chill went across the American landscape–“artists” (even those as
untalented as Mr. Reems) could be punished for their “art.” A
successful prosecution could prevent the release of books, articles,
paintings, and animation; anything that could be used to transmit
erotic material to the masses.

Still, despite the constant war being fought between those who seek to
treat adults like children and those who believe in the sanctity of
the human mind, we have taken porn from the back alleys to the front
of the class. Mammoth conventions are an annual event, adult film
stars are themselves pop stars of a sort, and nearly everyone–whether they admit it or not–has seen a so-called “dirty movie.”
That’s not to say we can kick back and take porn’s existence for
granted, but the now multi-billion-dollar industry does have a reach that
transcends mere perversion and “sickness.” Few need to walk in shame
from the adult video racks, and masturbation, while still treated with
furry-palmed contempt by a wide swath of Christian fascists, is more a
source of laughs and nervous jitters than condemnation and hellfire.
However, no sooner do I finish that sentence than I am reminded of
the FCC’s reign of terror in recent years, and the near riot
conditions that existed after Janet Jackson’s nipple allegedly
offended white trash beer guzzlers who have no qualms about beating
their compliant wives while the young ones remain within earshot. So
perhaps we’ve changed (some of us, anyway), but the forces that can
slap us in jail or inflict brutal fines still bathe in puritanical
loathing and self-righteous judgment. Nixon, Clinton, or Bush–same
shit all around.

And I was glad to see old Flynt nemesis Charles Keating make an
appearance, still unaware that he threw away his moral authority the
day he bilked taxpayers out of billions for his financial crimes. But
the crooks and felons who happen to wear white collars will always
point to the genitals, for few things have the power to distract us
from true moral rot than the shocking idea that people engage in sex
for reasons other than procreation. Somehow, we’re still at the stage
where fraud, embezzlement, and outright theft don’t have the power to
appall in quite the same way as consenting adults getting sweaty for a
few moments. And that’s the essential power of Inside Deep Throat–we’re laughing at the madness of it all, but deep down there’s a rage
that can never really go away. We’ve been hoodwinked and bamboozled
and yet, despite knowing the score, we keep falling for the same song
and dance time and time again. No one in full possession of their
faculties could argue that pornography harms a living soul, yet we
seem to accept the idea that too much sex–even if only visually
expressed without actual participation–creates generations of
hateful, amoral zombies, wholly incapable of healthy relationships.
Research you say? Who needs it? So-called morality, as currently
defined and expressed in American culture, is nothing more than the
triumph of superstition over intellect. It’s more about posturing,
then, than anything resembling actual behavior.

Inside Deep Throat might not convince anyone that porn is a
flourishing art form, but expression need not have the backing of
talent to warrant protection. From a strict legal standpoint, the
guttural rages of some two-bit performance artist are the equivalent
of Henry James or Van Gogh. Educated criticism and friendly debate
will sort out the “good” from the “bad,” but these labels are only
opinions that help guide consumers and aficionados, not stamps of
approval from a legislative body. And yet, 2005 might as well be 1972
for all we’ve (not) learned on the matter. And when creeps like Reems
convert to the madness of religion, it only feeds the ever-hungry
forces of darkness that gleefully point to the “proof” that pornography
is something to be rescued from, rather than escaped into. Producer
Brian Grazer and his talented group of filmmakers have given us the
first real conversation piece of the movie season; a way to remember,
yes, but also a dire vision of our present and future course. Inside
Deep Throat is a peek inside that all-American passion for
suppression, omission, and evasion; a world without heroes and yet,
defiantly, a never-ending supply of rank opportunists.